Of Other Demons
by CarmineDuvale
Summary: Tom Riddle has read this story once upon a time. Now, he stumbles upon it in real life. AU
He had read a story once upon a time, about how they had discovered a girl under a cathedral's floor, buried for so long the light she had held on her skin had slipped out and photosynthesized, and the sunrise she had held in her smile had clouded and rained, and the life she had held in her body had festered and festered and collapsed, and he had been fascinated.

He had read that story once upon a time, about the girl that had looked like nothing ever alive, and had laid like nothing ever put to rest, and had dissolved into dust like nothing ever existing, and he remembered how they had written odes about her red hair, long like the longest rainy day in November and coiled like a snake of blood around the fragile body of the unearthed, and how they had feared her and mourned her equally.

He had read that story once upon a time and had thought that he'd never lie eyes on something like her in all his eternity, on something so unprecedented and diseased, on something so close to immoral innocence.

He had been wrong.

…

He meets the almost girl on a Thursday.

More like, he catches a glimpse of flaming satin falling down shoulders so bony they promise to cut veins and coiling around a waist so tiny he could fit it in the hold of his hands and she's twirling on red heels up, up, up on a wooden table and people whistle and his gaze is fixed, fixed, fixed upon her.

When she turns around, she's a frame of bones glazed with skin and burning spirit and her eyes are the kind you find in the rabid dogs that hide by the docks. When she turns around, she's feral and proud and unfeeling. When she turns around, she's fucking empty.

That deadly alive gaze, that's why he wants her.

…

When the music ends, the rest of the dancers mingle through the tables, jumping on sailors' laps, kissing dock workers in lit corners, and is all a masquerade of debauchery and human decadence, and she is nowhere to be seen.

"That one's not a whore yet," someone says amusedly from behind him, and Tom turns around to find a fair man dressed in bland common clothes who still holds himself in such a way that he stands out like a sore spot, an obvious descendant of some noble house or other, one who's bound to have money and time and a severe lack of common sense, and little in the way of something more.

Tom inclines his head in invitation and smiles his charming, dreadful, poisonous society smile. Little birds, he thinks. One must always acquire chirping little birds.

…

Her name is Ginevra Weasley and the vocals of it hit like vitriol the back of his throat.

"They don't have two pennies to rub together anymore," Abraxas – who, despite other obvious preoccupations, needs no serious prodding to spill the dirt on her family – almost sing-songs. He's a bit busy at the moment, fondling the generous bosom of the masked woman on his legs, making the white flesh spill out of the barely-there cups, exposing dusty pink nipples to his gaze and, though Tom keeps himself for turning his nose just barely, that doesn't seem to derail the other man even a bit. The high society that wouldn't so much as spit on his bastard boots is terribly crass when no one of apparent importance watches.

"You don't say?" he murmurs encouragingly and Abraxas hums again, half-distractedly rearranging the whore in his lap to fully face Tom, the skirts of her dress bunched around her middle and cunt boldly on display. Abraxas cups it roughly and she whimpers, opening her legs a bit more and lifting shoe-clad feet on the table, inadvertently making the last pieces of a puzzle Tom had passingly wondered about fall neatly into place.

The other man is apparently far from being done.

"That father of hers, a favour here, a favour there, a measly hypocritical sycophant who would have accepted even the fleas of the very people he despised had they seen fit to bestow them upon him. They never did, of course. You know how it is; no one returns services to dogs, not even their masters. And the breeding. Don't even mention the breeding! Too many kids for his own good and not enough common sense to fill a tablespoon. His sons aren't good for much either, isn't that right, sweetheart?"

She hurries to nod as he swipes his thumb over her clit and, with a chuckle, he thrusts two fingers into her and fucks them in and out leisurely.

"Anyway, the girl's pretty enough, I suppose, and she'll sell well when the time comes. Redheads always do." With his unoccupied hand, he points to a man at a corner table, a silhouette in a cleanly cut coat displaying a tangled white long beard, coiled on the wooden surface before him. What looks like a baby goat sits in his lap, munching on what appears to be a handkerchief. "That's Aberforth, the owner. Strange man, stranger passions, if you get my drift. Anyway, Weasley owes a lot to Abe's brother. More than a lot. And he may be nice now while he can still reap some benefits off old Sir Arthur's bloody back but soon… She'll be just a good enough way to cover papa's debt and nothing more."

Tom nods as he's expected to do and thinks that yes, he's seen enough of Albus Dumbledore's benevolence in the past to know that is the truth. He finishes his drink with a long sip and stands.

"Very educative," he murmurs, "please accept my thanks," and, seemingly unfazed by the position the woman is in, he lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it as if they are in a ballroom and he's just about to take his early leave. "Milord. Lady Malfoy." The whore, the wife, gives a whimper and scurries to her feet, gathering the flimsy skirts around herself like an armour. Abraxas follows up, looking pale and angular and very keen on murder, though awfully unsure how to proceed. Tom smiles. He bows, mouths a jovial "Until next time" and makes his way to the door, the "I need something" end of the phrase hanging in the air. He'll see them soon, he can feel it.

…

He finds her lighting matches by the Thames, her hair set afire along with every splinter.

"I hear Albus Dumbledore hates flames," he conversationally says, leaning against the railing with his hands in his pockets. She turns towards him, eyes suspicious and large, something like disaster swimming in them and beckoning for him to drawn.

"Let's burn him then," she offers, and he smiles, taking the matches from her hand and throwing them in the river along with her fate.

…

He had read a story once upon a time, about a girl who had been buried for so long a holocaust had risen in her chest and a man with black holes on his fingertips had managed to unleash it.

He's spent years wanting a repeat.

* * *

 _ **I doubted that Abraxas scene as soon as I wrote it. Alas, there it stayed.**_


End file.
